From Prison Cell To Billionaire's Target

The freezing rain slashed against Dorothea Fowler's face, washing away her tears as fast as they fell.

Her thin, silk Dior dress-a garment meant for a warm ballroom-clung to her shivering skin like a layer of ice. She stood outside the towering iron gates of the Hendrix estate, her bare feet submerged in a puddle of freezing mud. She had lost her heels miles ago.

She pressed her thumb against the cold metal of the intercom button for the tenth time. Her finger was numb, the nail turning a bruised shade of purple.

"Alfredo," she begged, her voice violently shaking. "Please. You have to listen to me. I didn't do it."

Static crackled through the speaker. Then, the stiff, emotionless voice of Mr. Beach, the estate manager, cut through the sound of the downpour.

"Miss Fowler. Mr. Hendrix does not wish to see you."

"Emery was my best friend!" Dorothea screamed at the metal box, her throat burning. "I would never hurt her! Please!"

A sudden square of yellow light spilled onto the wet driveway.

Dorothea snapped her head up. On the second floor of the massive stone mansion, a heavy curtain was pulled back. A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette stood behind the glass.

Alfredo.

He held a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand. Even from this distance, Dorothea could feel the absolute zero of his stare. He wasn't looking at a woman he had known for years. He was looking at a piece of trash that had washed up on his property.

"Alfredo!" She surged forward, her fingers wrapping around the iron bars of the gate. The cold metal bit into her palms.

He didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He simply raised his free hand and made a brief, dismissive gesture to someone out of sight in the room.

The intercom buzzed again.

"Mr. Hendrix says," Mr. Beach's voice returned, slower this time, "if you want an opportunity to explain yourself..."

Dorothea stopped breathing. Her lungs ached. She waited for the lifeline.

"...you will stand right where you are. All night. If you are still there when the sun comes up, he will consider opening the door."

The words hit her chest harder than the freezing rain. It was a bucket of ice water poured directly over her heart.

He wasn't giving her a chance. He was putting her on display. He wanted her to stand in the mud like a criminal in the stocks, stripped of her dignity, begging for a scrap of his mercy.

Her knees buckled. She hit the wet gravel, the sharp stones tearing into the delicate skin of her shins.

She looked up at the window. The curtain slowly slid shut. The yellow light vanished. Alfredo was gone, sealing her out in the dark.

She dug her fingernails into her own palms until the skin broke. The sharp sting of pain grounded her.

If this was the only way to prove her innocence, she would do it. For Emery. And for the secret, pathetic